


Easier to Pretend

by rainbowumbrella



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Multi, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, and yen knows just which thread to pull, jaskier misses the excitement almost as much as he misses geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22344571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowumbrella/pseuds/rainbowumbrella
Summary: “They’re making more witchers.”Jaskier blinked. From what little he knew, he had the vague impression that it simply wasn’t possible to have new witchers. Witcherlings? Witcherlets? He wasn’t sure what the term actually was.“But that’s good, right?” he tried.When Geralt spoke again, there was a hint of anger in his voice. It was enough to make the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up. “No, it’s not good. You know far less than you believe you do. Go home, Jaskier. Forget about this. Sing your songs, entertain the court.”A few minutes ago, he’d have been tempted to take him up on that offer. But a few minutes ago felt far more like a whole lifetime ago. Things had changed. Jaskier was most certainly not going back home, he was seeing his promise through.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 43
Kudos: 417





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I should be doing other things like enrolling on a new year at uni and updating my other fics, but my laptop is broken and I have no idea whether anything I type up on my tablet is going to be anywhere near the ballpark of readable, so instead I present to you my newest obsession: the Witcher!
> 
> I’ve played most of Witcher 3 and I’ve read up to about 3/4 of Blood of Elves, so this might contain some elements of the games and books, but no major spoilers, I promise!

From the moment he’d left the small town of Caingorn, Jaskier had sworn to himself that he’d lead a perfectly average, danger-free life. No more getting kidnapped by elves, cursed by djinns or climbing up very steep mountains on which horses could not tread only to miss the entire fight that apparently involved a dragon.

No, no, no - he was done with that. He was done with all of that.

He sung in courts. He sung in beautiful banquets, important weddings, a few festivals - it was everything he’d ever wanted, really. Except it was...

“Boring. Mind-numbingly boring, Yennefer. Really, just going from one event to other, singing recycled material at best... Oh, I’ve got new stuff, but do they want to hear that? No, no, no. Oh, won’t you sing us the ones about the witcher, Jaskier, please? Another encore of Toss a Coin to Your Witcher, if you please, master bard sir. I tell them I’ve moved on, that the adventures of Geralt of Rivia, as told by yours truly, are done, but that’s all they want to hear! And my new songs are good, too, I can tell they like it, but... you can’t beat a good adventure now, can you? And Geralt’s story has got continuity, too. You can bond with him, you see. That was the whole point, to change the perspective on him. And now that’s all they want to hear.”

“Jaskier -“

“What can I do? I just keep on singing what they want to hear. I suppose they’ll have to move on eventually, pay attention to the new songs. Or maybe I can find myself another - nah, I don’t want to.” Suddenly, he held a hand to his throat, feeling the air going in and out without actually forming his voice. He tried to speak, going for a louder and louder tone, but his mouth moved without any words leaving his lips.

Yennefer smiled, if only briefly. “I didn’t come here to hear your complaints about your job, Jaskier. Now promise me you’ll be silent and I’ll lift the spell.”

Eyes wide, hands still at his throat, Jaskier nodded eagerly.

A slight, tingling sensation spread over his voice box, and Jaskier let out a small breath of relief. A smile formed on his face when he realized that he could hear it, and he opened his mouth to comment on that, but one look from Yennefer promptly shut him up. One word, he was sure, might very well be all that it took for her to make the spell permanent.

“I’m here about Geralt.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but she lifted a finger to silence him, and he promptly obeyed.

“I know he’s the last person you want to see now. I know all about your falling out, I... Well, I’ll be honest Jaskier, it’s at the forefront of your mind. And yes, I’ve read it. Don’t worry, I’m only dipping my toe in, I’m not after any sordid secrets you might have, I only needed to know if you’d see me or if I needed to be more creative. I was quite surprised when you let me in, I should tell you. I suppose maybe your boredom is greater than I thought. But that’s beside the point. Jaskier... I understand that he hurt you. He’s hurt me, too. But he needs help, and I should be the last person to give it. Our relationship is... Complicated, I believe, was one of the kinder words you used to describe it. And my being there now would only make things worse. Whereas you... Jaskier, it pains me to admit it but you’re good for him. It has to be you.”

There was a long moment of silence, Jaskier’s eyes fixed on the floor as he thought. Yennefer was being sincere, he was sure of it, but nothing was quite as simple as she made it sound.

“What is it?” Jaskier finally asked, frowning.

Yennefer shook her head. “Agree first. I’ll explain once I know I can count on you.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at her, a hint of laughter on his lips. She was kidding, right? She had to be kidding. “You come here saying that somehow I’m the only person for the job, and now I’m supposed to take it before I can even know what it entails? Are you joking?”

There was something in her eyes... She wasn’t joking.

By all the gods, she wasn’t joking, and this was serious. Far, far more serious than he’d ever imagined it could be. But then again, maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised - she has turned up at his doorstep, after all.

“Alright. Alright, I - I’ll take it.”

She smiled, but it was tight.

“Geralt is about to discover something that will hurt him in a way that...” She shook her head. “He’ll deny it, of course, it’s easier that way, but it will hurt. And it will cause him to make some unfortunate decisions that may very well get him killed. Your job is to make sure that he doesn’t die.”

Jaskier frowned. She was being cryptic, and he didn’t like that one bit. Something told him, some nagging sense of danger in the very back of his head, that she was involved somehow. Though then again, if he was to be fair, Yennefer did always set off those alarms in his head. He’d never quite gotten to trust her, no matter what Geralt said, not since she’d nearly gotten him killed during their first meeting. You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression, he always said, and the first impression he’d had of her was that she was a crazy sorceress that would very soon either kill him or castrate him or both. It was taking him a while to get over that, he supposed.

“And how exactly did you come across this information?” he asked, not bothering to mask his suspicion as he narrowed his eyes at her.

Yennefer was unfazed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“And what, exactly, is he about to discover?”

“You’ll know when he knows, bard. Now go on, find him. He should be in Ard Carraigh.”

******

There were three inns in Ard Carraigh, according to a helpful merchant Jaskier met on his way into town. One of them Jaskier knew right away was out of contention - from the description, he could imagine what the price for a room would be, and Geralt would never dream of spending that much coin on living quarters, no matter how much Jaskier might have begged him to reconsider in the past. Geralt was a practical person first and foremost.

The second was a shabby little place with a leaky roof and very little decoration on the walls. Jaskier had gone in for a moment, hoping to ask the innkeeper if they might have seen Geralt, but he’d promptly left once again upon overhearing a conversation between the man behind the bar and a patron. There was absolutely no way that Geralt would have stayed there if there was any other choice, and the feeling would most certainly have been mutual.

Stone walls lined the third inn, which Jaskier figured must have been built on the ruins of some other structure. It was fancier than most of the places at which Geralt usually chose to stay, with decent food by the smell of it, a few decorations on the walls and a warm fireplace near the stairs, but it was the last option, so Jaskier supposed that if Geralt truly was in town, this had to be where he was staying.

Not for the first time that day, Jaskier cursed at Yennefer for not giving him more information, and at himself for not trying harder to pry any other details from her. He had no idea what to expect, no clue whether Geralt would even still be in town. His conversation with Yennefer had been days ago - there was every chance that the witcher had already moved on. He hardly ever stayed in one place for long, he couldn’t afford to, not when people still had their bouts of unfriendliness despite Jaskier’s songs, and when money only flowed in through contracts.

Oh, this was a bad idea. A bad, bad idea. Geralt had made it very clear that he didn’t want anything to do with Jaskier, and Jaskier... He was over Geralt, wasn’t he? He was over him, he was -

The look in those violet eyes, the concern...

He had to do this, didn’t he? He had to. There was no other choice.

Slow footsteps brought him up to the counter, but before he had the chance to say anything, from the corner of his eye, Jaskier caught a glimpse of something. Something familiar, something... White hair, bright yellow eyes, a general air of broodiness and the glint of a medallion hanging from his neck. Geralt. Undeniably, most certainly, absolutely Geralt.

Jaskier’s stomach sank.

_I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this -_

And yet his legs carried him over to the witcher of their own accord, sinking him down onto the chair across from him like this was any other evening at an inn, like his heart wasn’t racing in his chest, like his knees hadn’t trembled as he walked, like his mind wasn’t screaming at him to get away before he got hurt. His legs, he decided, were really quite stupid.

“Jaskier,” was Geralt’s greeting, though his eyes didn’t move from the tankard he held in his hand.

Jaskier, although tempted to pretend like that tankard was simply the most interesting thing he’d ever seen in his life, chose to actually look at the witcher. “Geralt,” he replied, and although it came off as a bit of a challenge, his silence stemmed entirely from the fact that he had absolutely no idea what to say.

_Thanks, Yennefer._

“What are you doing here?” asked Geralt after a long moment.

Jaskier, unsure how to explain his position, decided to continue on the insolence thread. He was quite angry, at least, and challenging Geralt, even if entirely by accident, had been rather satisfying. “What are you doing here?”

There was another long moment of silence. Then, without a word or grunt of warning, Geralt stood up, slapped a few coins on the table, and walked out of the inn, leaving a shocked Jaskier rooted to his spot. From outside, he could hear the sound of a horse neighing, then cantering away. Roach, probably. Geralt must have ridden off.

A sigh left his lips, and his eyes found the coins on the table. It was... considerably more than the price of a single tankard of ale, and Jaskier had never known Geralt to be much of a drinker. An addled mind wasn’t good for combat, after all. Perhaps he’d had something to eat earlier, but even then... Jaskier wondered whether Geralt had meant to cover anything that he might order for himself, and if so, was that what he offered in the way of an apology? It wasn’t a very good one, but then again, Geralt had never been very good with words.

An apology... He hadn’t expected one, but the prospect that Geralt might indeed be sorry for what he’d said that day on the mountains was strangely uplifting.

Wait, he was supposed to keep an eye on Geralt, wasn’t he?

Jaskier jumped to his feet, dashing outside and looking around frantically, hoping to catch a glimpse of Roach in the distance. She was gone, though, and with her, the witcher.

“You had one job, Jaskier, one job,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. How was he supposed to find him now? He could have gone out of town for all he knew. He could have just scared him off, sent him running to the next town. Granted, he really didn’t think he was that scary, but he knew that Geralt was terrible at this kind of stuff, he’d been running from his Child of Destiny for years, so why not run from his ex-best friend, too?

Crossing his arms over his chest as he thought, Jaskier leaned against the fence that lined the path to the inn.

And right there, on the notice board on the other side of the fence, laid his answer.

**CONTRACT: SWAMP MONSTER**  
_Witcher or knight errant wanted to slay the beast roaming the swamps outside of town._

That was exactly the kind of thing that Geralt would want to at least take a look at, and the reward was hefty. As long as he hadn’t already killed the monster, then that was exactly where he’d be headed.

****

It was a short ride to the location indicated on the contract.

Unsurprisingly, Roach was already there, her reins tied to a tree near the road. Jaskier dismounted and led his gelding to a nearby tree, tethering him to its trunk with a skilled knot of the reins.

He gave Roach a pat as he walked past her, eyes roaming over the swampland. Geralt was there, there was no doubt about that now, but where? He couldn’t hear any monstrous shrieks, he saw no blood stains on the ground or decomposing bodies abandoned by frightened villagers - which was good, too, because bodies attracted necrophages. That was nearly rule number one of traveling with a witcher - if you see a body, assume there may be necophages nearby.

By the time he found Geralt, fairly far from the path, Jaskier was sure that his pants were positively ruined. Really, couldn’t he have picked some other contract to follow? A katakan, a nekker? Jaskier was really not a big fan of swamps. Too many drowners, water hags, and, well, water and mud. He was not dressed for that.

But then again, it was entirely possible that he was simply trying to avoid the elephant in the room. Namely, Geralt.

The witcher was kneeling down - and why, why would he kneel down in a swamp? - next to something, which Jaskier assumed must be the creature he’d been sent to kill. Good, so that was taken care of, they could now all be on their merry way, right? Maybe he was a little too late to help Geralt, but he’d managed on his own, so he could return to getting on with his now witcher-free life. All good, all solved.

Except Jaskier took a step forward. He took a step forward, and he saw it.

Bright yellow eyes staring blankly at the sky, eyes with vertically slit pupils just like a cat. Or a witcher.

The body was that of a witcher.

Jaskier stifled a cry.

“Did you - did you know him?” Jaskier asked, half out of politeness - after all, he had to admit that Geralt seemed rather upset - and half due to what Yennefer had said. If he did know him, perhaps they’d been friends. Perhaps that was what he’d been about to find out that would create such upheaval that the sorceress saw fit to track Jaskier down and send him on a mission to find Geralt. It made sense, he supposed. Jaskier knew all too well how much it hurt to lose a friend, and his was still alive and well.

“No.”

So that sent that theory crashing and burning.

“Oh. Well, then... maybe we should go. If whatever is here managed to kill a witcher, then it can’t be good for us to be hanging around. Maybe you need to uh - prepare. Yeah, prepare, drink some of your little potions and do that meditating thing you do.”

He wasn’t sure how to act, and it wasn’t just because of the things that Geralt had said on the mountaintop, the whirlwind of feelings that was wreaking havoc inside his head, or even the pain that crushed his heart every moment he spent looking at that head of white hair. No, it was mostly the fact that Geralt was acting very strangely.

Oh, he’d seen him inspect bodies before. He’d kneel down, sometimes poke and prod a little bit, and walk him through what he was seeing, usually figuring out what the monster was fairly quickly. But although he did see sympathy in his eyes from time to time, he was always practical about it, matter-of-fact. He never spent any longer knelt down next to a body than what he needed to be able to examine it and draw his conclusions. But right now, he was just... kneeling.

Something was off.

“Uh, Geralt? Shall we go?”

But Geralt didn’t reply.

Jaskier closed the distance between them, a soft frown on his face, then he moved to place a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher didn’t so much as twitch.

They spent a good few minutes like that, in silence. Jaskier was tense, constantly looking over his shoulder, worried that a kikimora or some particularly nasty water hag would jump out at them, but none ever did. He wasn’t used to that, to being so tense. Usually, he just trusted Geralt to hear anything approaching before it was anywhere near them. But currently, he wasn’t too sure that Geralt was in any state to keep an ear out for trouble, even if he didn’t quite understand what state he was even in.

Finally, Geralt broke the silence.

“They’re making more witchers.”

Jaskier blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting - and he truly didn’t know what that might be - it certainly wasn’t this. He’d asked, once, why there were so few witchers these days. Geralt had given him a vague explanation, clearly not wanting to discuss the subject, so he was left with the vague impression, backed up by little actual understanding, that it simply wasn’t possible to have new witchers. Witcherlings? Witcherlets? He wasn’t sure what the term actually was.

“But that’s good, right?” he tried.

When Geralt spoke again, there was a hint of anger in his voice. It was enough to make the hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up. “No, Jaskier, it’s not good.”

“But that means that there’ll be more witchers, you’re not going to go extinct after all,” Jaskier offered.

Geralt shook his head. “You know far less than you believe you do. Just trust me when I say it’s not a good thing. They must be stopped. Go home, Jaskier. Forget about this. Sing your songs, entertain the court.”

A few minutes ago, he’d have been tempted to take him up on that offer. But a few minutes ago he hadn’t seen Geralt struck dumb by the sight of a witcher laying dead on the swamp. A few minutes ago, he hadn’t watched Geralt actually allow him to comfort him for several minutes. A few minutes ago felt far more like a whole lifetime ago. Things had changed. Jaskier was most certainly not going back home, he was seeing his promise through.

“How do you know?” he asked instead, moving to kneel next to the body as well. The earth squished under his knees and Jaskier grimaced. He really, really hoped that whatever came next was far, far away from the swamps. “How do you know they’re training new witchers? You can’t possibly know all of them, right?”

Geralt’s fingers found the chain of the medallion that hung loosely around the late witcher’s neck, and he ran his fingers over it until they found the medallion, digging it out of a groove in the armor. “Don’t recognize the medallion,” he explained, “there aren’t that many witcher schools, I should know this one. If it existed when new witchers were still trained, then I’d know it.”

“And the medallion...?”

“Each school has a different one, yes. From the creature on here, I’m guessing they’ve chosen to call themselves the School of the... Unicorn?”

“Doesn’t seem particularly menacing if you ask me,” Jaskier chimed in, “I’d have called it the School of the Dragon, or the... Drowners!”

Geralt frowned, glancing up at Jaskier with a clearly puzzled look on his face. “Drowners are not very menacing. They may kill people somewhat regularly, but they’re only truly dangerous, even to those untrained, in large groups.”

“No, not - over there, Geralt!”

Finally, Geralt turned and saw what Jaskier was pointing at - a pack of drowners roaming only a few paces away, so far unaware of them, though with Jaskier’s loud exclamations, it was rather unlikely that it’d remain that way. The second rule of traveling with a witcher? Loud noises attract monsters.

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt grumbled under his breath, “Jaskier, go. They haven’t seen us yet. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

“What? No! There could be more of them!” Jaskier complained, shaking his head vehemently. “Can’t you just come with me? Leave them, they’re not hurting anyone.”

“They’re too close to the road. If I leave them, I can nearly guarantee that there will be at least one dead villager by the end of the week.”

“Close to the road! Do you have any idea how far I came into the swamp to find you?”

A small smirk spread over Geralt’s lips, and he whistled a familiar sound - he was calling Roach. What was he doing that for, though? She couldn’t come get them in the swamps, he’d tried the reins to a tree. A neighing sound reached his ears, and Jaskier rolled his eyes. Fine, maybe they weren’t so far from the road, after all.

“If you can hear Roach, then the drowners can hear villagers walking down the road. They haven’t attacked because they’re not hungry, they’ve just eaten,” Geralt explained.

Jaskier frowned. “Eaten what?”

Geralt nodded to a figure a little ahead of them, something that Jaskier had quite happily dismissed as a rock, or a log, or maybe both. Upon closer inspection, though, it was unmistakably the ravaged remains of a wyvern. Jaskier placed a hand over his mouth to keep from gagging - oh, he thought to himself, you’ve been spending far too much time inside the walls of castles and palaces, once upon a time you wouldn’t have even flinched at that - and quickly moved to stand up. Suddenly, going back to the horses and waiting for Geralt didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“Yeah, uh - I’ll see you when you’re done,” Jaskier announced, quickly rushing back the way he’d come, water splashing loudly in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt isn’t the only one questioning the accuracy of Jaskier’s recounted events.

“I’m not taking you to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier very purposefully dumped a bucket of water over the witcher’s head just as he finished the sentence, causing him to sputter and spit with clear annoyance. Jaskier grinned innocently.

“But why? Come on, I’m not going to tell anyone about your super-secret witcher hideout. I’ll just... mention it discreetly in a song. No details, nothing that would give it away, I promise.”

Geralt had mentioned Kaer Morhen to him before, usually in passing. He didn’t know too much about it, but it seemed to be the closest thing to a home that Geralt had ever known, and it was where some witchers, as far as he could tell, went to spend the winter. It was a place shrouded in mystery, and a part of Geralt’s life, which naturally made it a subject of much curiosity for Jaskier. He could not understand what reason the witcher could possibly have for not wanting to bring him.

“Jaskier, Kaer Morhen is not an inn. People can’t just come and go as they please,” Geralt argued.

“What do I need, a letter of safe conduct?” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Come on, I’ll be your guest. I won’t get in the way, I promise.”

“Hm.”

Oh, Jaskier knew what that hm meant. It meant Geralt didn’t believe him, it meant that he always got in the way, and it meant that he didn’t want him there. All things, of course, that he’d made perfectly clear in the past. The words still stabbed at his heart, resounded in his mind every time that he looked at Geralt, every time they spoke, and almost every moment they spent together. Truth to be told, he didn’t want to do this. He was curious about Kaer Morhen, but he was insisting on going because of the look of concern he’d seen in Yennefer’s eyes, a look he’d never seen on her before, which he never expected to see, not where Yennefer was concerned. He was insisting on going because as much as Geralt might have hurt him, he still cared.

And for some reason, he apparently needed him.

“It’s settled, then!” he announced triumphantly, deciding to pretend like Geralt’s silence meant he agreed to it. “We’ll set off for Kaer Morhen in the morning. Now, would you care to explain why, exactly, we must go there?”

Geralt studied him for a long time before relenting with a grunt and leaning back on the tub. There were still vestiges of his fight with the drowners clinging to his skin, and yet Jaskier had to force himself not to stare - really, was he that desensitized after years traveling with the witcher? He remembered the twist his stomach gave when he saw the ravaged wyvern and decided that no, he wasn’t. It was really just Geralt.

“I need to talk to Vesemir,” the witcher explained, “and besides, Kaer Morhen was the last place to still train new witchers. Perhaps the sacking of Kaer Morhen will point us in the right direction.”

Us, Jaskier noted. So Geralt wasn’t writing him off just yet, no matter what an inconvenience he might consider him. That was... something, he supposed.

“Alright, we’ll go speak to Vesemir,” Jaskier agreed. Then, he knelt down by the tub, arms draped over the edge, chin nearly resting on them. “Tell me, Geralt, what happened then? The sacking of Kaer Morhen. I’ve heard you mention it before.”

There was a moment of hesitation, yellow eyes contemplating Jaskier deeply, before Geralt sighed and spoke, “the villages near Kaer Morhen... We had lived in peace with them for many centuries. But humans have never been too fond of witchers, of anything different from them. Sorcerers have always looked down on us, and have always been eager to learn more about the mutagens and magic used to create us. It was easy to incite them. The villagers stormed the castle, with the help of sorcerers, of course. Together, they destroyed much of the keep, killed all the witchers that resided there, and ransacked our laboratories. Vesemir is the only instructor who survived. 23 witchers and 40 students died that day. Since then, we’ve become more secretive.”

That was... horrible. Jaskier frowned, moving to place a hand on Geralt’s arm without even thinking about it. The moment he noticed, he thought it a mistake, but to his surprise, Geralt didn’t move, he did nothing to shake him off. So he let his hand rest there for a while longer, hoping it offered him some support.

“Did you know them?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt sighed. “Some of them. But we’ve grown to expect this. No witcher has ever died on his bed.”

“There’s a difference between dying slaying some beast and being killed by an angry mob,” Jaskier pointed out.

As expected, he received only a grunt in reply from the witcher. Really, he thought to himself, he’d have expected Geralt’s eloquence to improve over the years they had spent traveling together. It made him wonder to how much of what he said the witcher even listened.

“So the sorcerers took the - mutagens, was it? - from the laboratory? And you think now they could be using it to create more of you?” Jaskier asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. Truthfully, he just wanted to keep Geralt talking because the silence was unbearable. The silence let him go back inside his head, it let him think and analyze the situation, and he most certainly did not want to do either of those things.

Geralt answered with his trademark, “hm.”

Jaskier let out a sigh, giving up on conversation. He was far too tired to do all of the work there.

*****

The ride to Kaer Morhen was long, and the road was full of perils. After everything that he’d learned regarding the sacking of the stronghold, though, he supposed that this must be exactly what the witchers wanted. No one would go that way unless they were willing to put themselves at risk - though the same could be said about going up against witchers - and if they did decide to tread this path, it could be almost guaranteed that not all would make it, thinning the numbers of any horde.

And for witchers, the surroundings of Kaer Morhen were likely to be excellent, if not entirely too dangerous, training.

Geralt took them past all of the obvious paths, urging them through the forest, into areas so riddled with obstacles that they were forced to dismount. Jaskier asked time and again why they couldn’t just take the path, and Geralt at best answered with a grunt. Secret witcher things, he supposed, though he didn’t understand the secretiveness anymore, not when Geralt was leading him to Kaer Morhen in the first place.

At last, they came upon something that looked somewhat like a treaded path, and Geralt muttered something under his breath. “The Trail,” it seemed, though Jaskier had been far too distracted by the prospect of an easy and straightforward path to pay too much attention. Easy and straightforward, however, turned out to be naught but a pipe dream, and they were forced to ride alongside the path most of the time - it was all they could do to avoid the obstacles with which the trail was littered.

Before long, however, they were leaving the forest to be met with the sight of grandiose ruins of what must have once been a majestic castle. Kaer Morhen - Caer a'Muirehen, Keep of the Elder Sea. He wondered what it must have looked like in its day, before the sacking and, he presumed, time, had it crumbling. A few beautiful metaphors started to develop in his head, and he smiled, breathing in contently. He’d take note of those, but the real story, the one he’d immortalize in his songs, was still coming. He could feel it.

Oh, maybe this would turn out to be worth the awkward trip. If Kaer Morhen itself was already beautiful inspiration from afar, he could hardly wait to see what its halls would hold. And other witchers... Well, they were bound to have stories of their own, were they not? And with any luck, they’d be less stingy on the details than Geralt.

As they approached the large gates - old gates, metal rusted in some points, groaning and creaking as they were pulled up - they were greeted by a gray-haired individual, yellow eyes with vertically slit pupils just like Geralt’s, except his seemed warmer, kinder. Was it possible, he thought to himself, that not all witchers were as brooding and distant as Geralt? Oh, this was very good material indeed.

“Vesemir,” Geralt greeted as he unceremoniously pulled any luggage off his horse and started to lead her to the stables.

Vesemir’s eyes, still warm and kind when fixed on Geralt, narrowed and grew colder, more suspicious, as they settled on Jaskier. The change took the bard by the surprise, and he instinctively moved closer to Geralt.

“Are you going to introduce your friend?” Vesemir asked, and maybe it was just the sudden rush of adrenaline talking, but did the older witcher’s hand twitch towards his sword? He wouldn’t even need that, Jaskier thought to himself, a single sign of Aard and he’d slam back against a tree or a rock with such a strength that he’d be done for.

“We -“ Ah, yes, here it came. We’re not friends, Vesemir, we just spent years traveling together, I just know the bard better than anyone, he’s just opened his heart to me. We’re not friends, I made that abundantly clear that day on the mountain, and yet he still came back because he just can’t help himself, even Yennefer of Vengerberg, of all people, can convince him to come back the moment he truly believes things are serious. We’re not friends, he’s just a fool. “This is Jaskier. You might know a few of his songs.”

The suspicion disappeared quickly enough, replaced by a warmth that Jaskier found strangely comforting. “Ah, yes. Toss a Coin to Your Witcher was... Well, I have to admit I rather liked it, Jaskier. Though Geralt tells me the lyrics weren’t fully accurate.”

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably, and it was only his years of practice at keeping a joyful facade for the public that stopped him from blushing. “Well, maybe a few details were uh... embellished.”

Maybe sometimes he felt a little bad about that. Really, despite everything, he held no ill will towards the elves. But it’d sold, hadn’t it? The song was a catch, everyone knew it, and they were kinder and more respectful towards Geralt in response. The witcher himself had admitted, even if somewhat reluctantly, that he got stiffed far less often after a while of traveling with Jaskier. So he told himself it didn’t hurt the elves and prayed that it was true.

Vesemir made a soft sound of contemplation. “I like Geralt’s version better,” he mused, “but I suspect you didn’t come all this way to discuss poetry and music, have you? I wasn’t expecting to see you until winter, Geralt.”

“I’m afraid I’ve recently learned of something that can’t wait until winter, Vesemir. But Roach needs some water and rest, it’s been a long road from Ard Carraigh,” Geralt explained, patting the mare fondly on the neck.

Vesemir nodded. “Very well, I’ll meet you inside.”

*****

The inside of Kaer Morhen was...

Underwhelming, if Jaskier were to be honest. He’d expected grandiose halls, decorated with paintings depicting famous witchers, deadly beasts and battles. He’d expected flourishes, creature comforts, any kind of castle-like elements. Instead, what he found was the knowledge that Geralt’s practical focus was something that was apparently taught to witchers, for instead of a grandiose hall, the large double doors led to a huge room that was devoid of all but the bare essentials. In one corner, there was a table surrounded by a few stools, and splitting the room in two, there was a fire pit with a caldron hanging over it - that was as close to creature comforts are one seemed to get in Kaer Morhen. Otherwise, there were only crates upon crates, plus a few loose stones, remnants, he supposed, of the battle once fought there.

Geralt had joined them a while ago, and they sat around the table in silence, Vesemir and Geralt both bearing grim looks, all while Jaskier did his best to commit everything about the keep to memory.

“New witchers, huh? And here I thought people were happy we were a dying breed,” Vesemir muttered, shaking his head despondently. “Are you really sure about this, Geralt?”

In response, Geralt pulled out a medallion from his pocket and set it down on the table.

Vesemir carefully picked it up and examined it, turning it over in his hand a number of times before letting out a tired sigh. “School of the Unicorn. Well, at least they have a sense of humor.”

Jaskier frowned. “I didn’t get that,” he said. “Why unicorn? They’re not exactly frightening, are they?”

It was Geralt who answered, a slight sardonic smile on his lips. “People have long believed unicorns to be extinct. But they aren’t. They’ve simply learned to avoid those who would do them harm. The unicorn -“

“Represents the return of something thought extinct,” Jaskier finished, his tone contemplative. “This means that they - they’ve really planned this, Geralt.”

“It’s not something any would do on a whim,” the witcher pointed out.

Vesemir nodded in agreement. “It’s not an easy thing, making witchers. It takes special herbs, mutagens, spells. A knowledge we believed long lost after the sacking of Kaer Morhen, and we thought... We thought maybe it was for the best.”

On some level, Jaskier already knew the answer to his question, but he found himself asking it anyway. He supposed he needed to hear it, he needed to hear it straight from a witcher’s mouth. “Why?”

He’d expected Vesemir to answer. He’d hoped Vesemir would answer. But instead it was Geralt who explained it, and that only made the words all the more painful to hear. “Only three in ten boys survive the Trial of the Grasses. And those who do... It’s a grueling affair, Jaskier. All of the Trials are.” He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. Still, Jaskier could see a vulnerability in him that was almost disconcerting in the usually so guarded witcher. He’d never spoken to him about any of this, even though Jaskier had asked time and again. Maybe he’d thought that he could put it all behind him. Destiny, however, seemed to have different plans. “We train, we survive the Trials, we pass all of our tests, each with its own death toll, and then we get our medallion. We go out on the Path. And how many young witchers die within the year?”

Jaskier swallowed. Vesemir adopted a strange, solemn look that Jaskier believed might carry at least a dash of guilt.

“So when the mages took the mutagens, when the last witchers who knew the process were found dead in these halls, yes, we thought maybe it was time.”

“But someone, it seems, disagreed,” Vesemir added, shaking his head. “Geralt, I know you hoped that I’d have some answers for you, but I don’t. We never learned the name of the mages who attacked us that day, and I can’t even guarantee that they would be involved. Mutagens can be made, herbs can be grown and picked. It could be someone else entirely.”

So that was it. They were back at ground zero. He could see the frustration in Geralt’s stony face, the worry lines that varied almost imperceptibly when he was trying to hide or deny his concern. Over the years, he’d learned to read the witcher very well. And so he couldn’t quite help himself when another lead popped to mind.

“Yennefer!” he announced a little more loudly and a little less eloquently than he’d have liked. At the witchers’ puzzlement, he elaborated, “she uh... Well, she came to me a while ago and she said... She said Geralt was about learn something that would be really shocking, long story short, I should find him. I asked how she knew that but she wouldn’t tell me.”

And there it was. The cat was out of the bag.

He really shouldn’t have said that, should he?

The look Geralt was giving him... Jaskier was glad that a witcher’s magical abilities was limited to a handful of signs, or he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t have just felt like melting into a puddle, but he’d actually have liquefied into that form. Though he supposed he shouldn’t discard that possibility entirely, Yennefer might still follow through with it once she found out that he’d told Geralt about this.

Quickly, Geralt stood up, and Jaskier almost expected him to walk away without a word, get on Roach and just ride into the sunset without so much as a goodbye or any indication of where he was going. But instead, Geralt turned around to face him and when he spoke, his words were quiet but no less angry. “Is that why you came to find me? Tell me the truth, Jaskier.”

“Well, it wasn’t because I thought you missed me, that’s for sure!” Jaskier argued, not bothering to try and hide his anger, either.

“I brought you to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier. I brought you to a place no human who wasn’t a witcher in training has ever been invited to, and you -“

“No!” Jaskier was also standing now, fists clenched, almost shaking in anger. “No, you don’t get to do this, you don’t get to be angry! I get to be angry, because after everything you said, after you... After all of that, I still came for you, I still - I was going to say no, you know? When Yennefer asked me, I was set on it, I thought... I figured I didn’t owe you anything. But she looked so worried, and - and fuck you, Geralt, because maybe it’s that easy for you to throw away decades of friendship, but I still care. I still care. So you don’t get to be angry this time, you just... don’t.”

Something softened in Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier all but collapsed back on his chair, exhausted. He wasn’t used to doing this, he wasn’t used to outbursts - he was usually calmer, less on the shaking with anger side and more on the articulating his pain or just altogether repressing it side. It was a lot less tiring. At least for him.

Words always seemed to be quite an ordeal for Geralt, even if he could be amazingly articulate when he wanted to. Except when he was narrating an adventure to Jaskier, of course. Toss a coin to your witcher, sure, but never a story to your bard, huh?

“You’re still angry over what I said on the mountaintop.” It wasn’t a question.

Jaskier answered anyway. “Yes, of course I’m angry, Geralt. You literally said that the best thing that could happen to you would be for me to be taken off your hands. The one blessing life could give you. And I thought - I really thought - we were friends, though I guess that was through no fault of your own, you always corrected me.”

The look on Vesemir’s face could only be described as a grimace, and he quietly stood up and snuck out of the room, giving him and Geralt some privacy. Jaskier knew the sharpness of a witcher’s hearing well enough, however, that he supposed being in the next room would affect his ability to follow their argument only marginally.

There was a long silence, and Geralt turned his back to Jaskier, choosing instead to face the fire under the caldron. Jaskier waited.

“We were,” Geralt said, finally breaking the silence. “We are.”

Jaskier blinked, mouth dropping open in what he had to assume was a comic sight. He’d barely hoped for an apology - which, he noted, he still hadn’t gotten, not really. But to get Geralt to finally call him a friend? Now that was... amazing.

“Really?” he asked, because as much as he didn’t think Geralt capable of such cruelty as saying those words when he didn’t mean them, he also couldn’t quite believe his ears.

Geralt turned around, and there was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. “Of course. Jaskier, what I said on that mountain... I’ve regretted it from the moment I returned to the inn and found the room empty. I’d hoped - I told myself that I hadn’t hurt you. I believed it until I saw you were gone.”

“And why wait this long to apologize?”

Geralt took a moment to answer, breathing out a sigh. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me, not when you left so quickly. And after a while... I told myself it was for the best. That you were safer, happier away from a witcher’s life. I heard of how well you were doing, and it sounded like you had everything you ever wanted. Everything you couldn’t have on the Path with me.”

That much... That much Jaskier had to admit was true. He’d never have gotten to do all that he’d done if he’d stuck with Geralt, he’d never have played at court so consistently, he might never have made such a name for himself among royalty and nobility. But he wasn’t happier. Not at all. It was nice, at first, he’d missed all the creature comforts, and everything was so new. It was exhilarating, even, to watch himself rise to fame. But then it’d grown to be a routine, and maybe Geralt had spoiled him with far too much excitement, but playing for courts had grown downright boring. Still, he’d kept at it, because what else was he to do?

He frowned a little, though, as a thought came to mind. “Wait, is that why you ran out of the inn that day?”

“Well, I didn’t see much of a point in having this conversation.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an idiot?”

A small, fond smile crept up onto Geralt’s lips. “You. Multiple times.

Jaskier chuckled, then nodded knowingly to himself. “Good. I knew I was a good influence on you, Geralt.”

*****

Geralt, as it turned out, hadn’t seen Yennefer since that fateful day on the mountain, and he was none too pleased to have the first time he heard from her in months be through Jaskier. As he’d apparently spent his entire day quota of words in the earlier conversation, the argument that followed was filled with ‘hm’s and monosyllabic replies, but with Vesemir’s help, they reached the agreement that Yennefer was the best lead they had, and that stopping the future death of several children was worth a confrontation with the sorceress.

The problem remained, however, that they had no idea where she might be. There was always her little shop in Vengerberg, but Geralt assured them that it was closed and that she wouldn’t be heading back - he’d probably stopped by, Jaskier figured, but he decided against pressing for more information. Geralt always got terribly touchy whenever the subject of a certain sorceress was involved, and he’d learned to steer clear from it.

Vesemir offered to send out a few letters to some friends who may have news of her, and Geralt and Jaskier both did the same - between them, they had a wide circle, and so they hoped to find at least a few leads worth following, if nothing else.

Since they’d have to wait for a reply until they could take any kind of action, Jaskier and Geralt took this time to rest and relax. Geralt trained every morning, and afternoons were usually spent split between meditating and training a reluctant Jaskier that was far too aware of how sharp swords were, how thin and sliceable his fingers were, and how very important they were not only to him personally, but also for his whole livelihood, in sword fighting. When asked why the sudden desire to train him, Geralt explained that this could possibly be one of the most dangerous missions he’d ever led Jaskier into, but the bard suspected that there was just something about Kaer Morhen that drove witchers to want to teach others fencing, for Vesemir could often be seen critiquing Geralt’s technique as well. Jaskier, in the meantime, spent his mornings exploring Kaer Morhen and his afternoons either training or resting his sore muscles while trying to pry a few good stories from Vesemir, who, he was eager to tell Geralt, was far more willing to speak of his adventures than Geralt himself.

At night, the three of them gathered for dinner and spent the night in conversation, with Jaskier occasionally taking a step back and just playing his lute in the background to give the two witchers a chance to catch up and to speak of witchering issues of which the bard knew too little to engage.

It was only over a week later that they received a reply that actually pointed them in some direction. Although Jaskier was the last to have a turn reading the message and had a chance to steel himself after seeing the looks on Vesemir’s and Geralt’s faces, nothing could have prepared him for what he soon learned. Nothing.

> _We’ve heard of Nilfgaardian forces approaching Sodden Hill, a battle is all but imminent. If my sources are correct, a group of sorcerers have made the decision to stand and fight with the people of Sodden, among them Yennefer of Vengerberg. If it’s with her and only her that you wish to speak, Vesemir, I would advise that you do so quickly, for it’s not likely that any will survive the battle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: Jaskier, this is dangerous, you need to learn to defend yourself.  
> Jaskier: but my lute playing fingers and your sharp witcher swords!
> 
> (They’re training with training swords, don’t worry)
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos/bookmarks! I always love to hear what everyone is thinking, it’s super helpful and heartwarming!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a bit longer, sorry about that. The plan is for updates to be a little more frequent, hopefully the next one will be up in less than a week.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks, they absolutely made my week!
> 
> A quick content warning for this one, there are a few (not really graphic, I think) descriptions of a battlefield. You’ll probably know when it’s coming, so you can just skip over that if you wish!

“No.”

Jaskier blinked at Geralt, a soft frown forming on his face. “Geralt, what do you mean ‘no’?”

Geralt shook his head, heading for the door unceremoniously. Jaskier followed after him, having to jog to keep up with the witcher’s quick strides. “She’s not dying on that hill.”

“Geralt, we’ll never make it in time! And did you miss the bit about the Nilfgaardian army? Have you seen a Nilfgaardian army? Have you seen what Nilfgaard does to the towns it passes through? To the armies that fight them, to the civilians they’re protecting? Geralt, you’re a witcher, not a - I don’t know what could defeat a Nilfgaardian army, but it’s not a lone witcher!”

“Then I won’t let her die alone.”

“Geralt, I don’t want to die!” Jaskier argued, a hint of panic mixed with sheer exasperation in his tone. He was not ready to face a Nilfgaardian army - in fact, he was pretty sure that a state of being where one was ready for that simply didn’t exist.

Geralt whirled around, anger clear on his face. “Then don’t come, Jaskier! In fact, that’s better - stay here with Vesemir, where you’re safe. I’ll come back for you when the battle is done.”

“No, you won’t! No one will, Geralt, you’re not getting that! I’ve walked through towns once Nilfgaard was through with them. It’s...” There were tears in his eyes, and Jaskier shook his head. “Please, Geralt.”

“I’m going, Jaskier,” he announced, and Jaskier knew that there was no arguing with him, he knew that it was a lost cause.

So he nodded, swallowing back a sob. “Very well. Go ahead and saddle the horses, then. I just need to grab my lute.”

“Jaskier -“

“No. No, I’m not... If you’re doing this, then I’m going with you. I’m not letting you die alone.”

“This isn’t one of your poems, Jaskier, this is real life, it’s war. There’s no going back, they won’t spare you just because you’re a bard in the wrong place at the wrong time. It will be bloody and gruesome, and even if you survive, even if by some miracle you don’t get injured, I can assure you that you will see things that will never leave you, things you will wish you had never seen,” Geralt warned him.

Jaskier nodded gravely. “I know. Saddle the horses, I’ll meet you in the stables in a minute.”

With that, Jaskier quickly made his way to the room he’d taken up - the best bed in Kaer Morhen, he’d been told, and he’d wondered why exactly they would leave the best bed in the guest room when they never received guests. Were witcher actually allergic to comfort? The pretense for his quick trip upstairs was, of course, to grab his lute, but although he’d never dream of leaving it behind, even when he was heading towards what he was sure was certain death, the main reason he’d desperately wanted to rush to his room was to have a second to himself, a second to think, a second to process.

He knew there was no talking Geralt out of it. He could hear voices downstairs, he could hear Vesemir trying to reason with the witcher, but this was Yennefer they were talking about. Geralt could never see reason when it came to Yennefer.

And yet he’d never demand that anyone follow him into battle. Jaskier could back out - he should back out. After all, he could just barely wield a sword, he had all of one and a half weeks, roughly, of instruction. He’d just recently managed to parry without dropping the sword. In a battle, he’d be useless. No, worse than useless, he’d likely get in the way. So he should stay back, he should keep himself safe. There was no reason for him to die, too.

Except there was.

Because if Geralt was walking into a battlefield, then he wanted to be there, too. He’d seen Geralt head off into something that could easily go sideways at the very least dozens of times before. It was his job to put himself into those situations, it was his job to risk his life. But this was different. This was a certain end. And Jaskier wasn’t sure that he would follow him into the battlefield, he wasn’t sure that he could make himself do that, he wasn’t sure, he really wasn’t, because he’d never been so afraid. Not during the djinn incident, not when they were captured by Filavandriel, never. But if he couldn’t join him in the battlefield, then he’d at least accompany him to the edge of safety.

His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bed, onto the most comfortable bed in Kaer Morhen.

It was a good bed, he thought to himself.

A good bed.

They’d been good days, even if his arms had never ached as much as they did over the past week. It was a good note to end on. He only wished it could have lasted longer.

A strangled sob left his lips and he blinked heavily, letting a couple of tears escape his eyes before he took a deep, shuddering breath, squared his shoulders and grabbed his lute by the neck.

****

“Geralt, I’m not staying here.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed, Jaskier.”

“So are you!”

The innkeeper was staring at them with a confused look on his face. Jaskier ignored him. People usually looked at him strangely when they caught him and Geralt arguing, though he’d never quite managed to figure out why.

“That’s different,” Geralt countered.

Jaskier scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich. Please, tell me, Geralt, in what way is it different?”

“I can fight.”

“What a load of good that will do when twenty soldiers surround you! Even you have your limits, Geralt!”

“I know what I’m doing,” he insisted.

This time, Jaskier laughed - he laughed a cold, dry, humorless laugh. “Oh, I love what that implies. No, go ahead, explain to me how it is that I don’t know what I’m doing, because I’m just a defenseless bard and not a big, mean witcher.”

Geralt took a deep breath and Jaskier could see the muscles in the witcher’s jaw tensing. He’d really hit a nerve there, hadn’t he? Good. Nothing else was getting through to him, that much was clear. It was the fifth time they had that argument in less than a day.

“That’s not what I meant. You’ve never seen battle, Jaskier. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“And you’ve never seen what a town looks like after Nilfgaard has passed through, so I think we’re even. Geralt, I know. I know I’m not making it out of there. But maybe... Maybe I can help. Even if it’s just entertaining people, keeping their spirits up. And I’m - I’m not half bad at stitching up wounds now, am I? I want to be there. If you’re going, then... I’m going, too.”

The innkeeper opened his mouth to interrupt, but Geralt lifted a hand to stop him.

He hesitated, but spoke nonetheless.

“Are you talking about the battle of Sodden Hill?” the innkeeper asked, leaning forward on his counter. “That’s over, finished days ago. You can still see smoke rising from the hillside, though. That Yennefer... She saved us all, they say.”

It was rare that emotion would show clearly on Geralt’s face, rare enough that Jaskier had learned to read a number of small tells so he could know what the witcher was thinking when he wouldn’t voice more than a ‘hm’. And yet, in just that moment, Jaskier watched at least three different expressions of varying levels of panic form on Geralt’s face before they settled into full alarm.

“What happened to Yennefer?” the witcher asked, his voice nearly a snarl.

Jaskier felt bad for the innkeeper, who looked several shades paler than he had when they’d first walked in, and with good reason. He’d only been trying to help.

“I don’t know, sir. She’s missing, a lot of the sorcerers are!” The last part was said in a rather defensive tone, which did little for Geralt’s mood, Jaskier already knew that.

A small huff left the witcher’s lips, and he turned around, walking decisively towards the door. Jaskier said a few quick apologies to the innkeeper, who still looked awfully pale, standing stiff as a board in his spot, and he ran to catch up with the witcher, who was already halfway towards the stables. This seemed like one of those moments where if he let Geralt out of his sight, it could be days before he found him again.

“Geralt!” he called as he approached the witcher. “Geralt!”

The only answer he got was a hum of acknowledgement.

“Geralt, slow down!” Jaskier insisted. Really, they might of similar heights, but the witcher’s powerful legs could carry him at speeds that Jaskier could only match by jogging alongside him.

“I need to find Yennefer,” Geralt answered, not even glancing back. “You should stay here. It could be dangerous. There’s bound to still be soldiers in the area.”

Jaskier frowned at that. Really, Geralt allowed him to come along to find nests of drowners, nekkers, harpies, a hundred different monsters that would attack him on sight, but this he thought was too dangerous? Sometimes he didn’t understand Geralt’s mind. Though then again, an angry Yennefer was far more dangerous than the meanest lesher he’d ever seen. Maybe Geralt was onto something.

“What? I’m not leaving you,” Jaskier argued, shaking his head vehemently,

Much to his surprise, Geralt didn’t insist. “Fine. Then keep up, we don’t have time to waste. She could be injured.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes at that. “Need I remind you that Yennefer can absolutely take care of herself? She’s probably fine, Geralt. It wouldn’t be the first time that she’s gone and vanished from the face of the Continent, now, would it?”

“We’re going, Jaskier.”

Jaskier let out a sigh. He was not winning this one.

They’d ridden for days now, and Jaskier was not looking forward to getting back on his horse. No, he wanted a soft bed, he wanted a decent meal, and he wanted to fall asleep looking up at the ceiling rather than the stars. Oh, the starry sky was beautiful and great inspiration, sure, but he could go without that for a few days. He missed roofs. What he didn’t want was to have to sit his sore body on a saddle again, or ride through the night inside a forest or, with his luck, through swamps.

He was tired.

So, so tired.

But Geralt wasn’t slowing down, and as tempted as Jaskier was to stay at the inn and wait for the witcher’s return, he had the feeling that if he sat this one out, Geralt would go off on his own, probably figuring that he was protecting Jaskier. Yennefer’s warning still rang loudly in his ears, and... Well, a few more nights of riding and camping in the wilderness was probably worth it to make sure Geralt didn’t get himself killed.

And so they set off towards Sodden Hill.

He could smell it before he could see it. Jaskier was left wondering how the witcher wasn’t at very least wrinkling his nose, for if he could smell it, then Geralt must have picked up the scent a long time ago. Burnt flesh, decay and - goodness, he should have known that Geralt’s comment during the feast in Cintra was based on truth. The witcher had always been a big fan of accuracy, after all, hadn’t he?

Was this what battlefields always smelled like?

He’d always figured it’d be... Cleaner, somehow, than when Geralt fought monsters. But even without the slime or venom or natural decay of beasts like rotfiends, the battlefield was no better than a river bank after Geralt was done with a nest of drowners.

Jaskier’s heart clenched and his stomach turned at the sight of a body, charred remains too far gone for him to even know whether it was a Nilfgaardian soldier or someone defending Sodden Hill. He clutched his saddle tightly, weaving the reins around his fingers dangerously entirely because he needed to be doing something with his hands, and he fixed his eyes on the fortress ahead. His gelding would know the way, there was no need for him to watch the road, he told himself.

“It was a Nilfgaardian soldier,” Geralt said after a moment, his tone a little flatter than usual.

Jaskier frowned, unsure as to how Geralt even knew what he’d been thinking. Then again, the witcher was deceptively observant. “How can you tell?” Jaskier asked, his tone unusually quiet.

“There was metal molten on his body. The armies the surrounding kingdoms were sending never arrived, and no peasant or wizard would’ve worn armor like that, so it must have been a Nilfgaardian soldier,” Geralt explained.

It always fascinated him at the same time that it somewhat disturbed him how Geralt managed to look at things coldly enough to pick up these subtle signs. Then again, he’d hardly manage to survive if he didn’t. Examining the victims was an important part of understanding and identifying the monster he was meant to hunt, and if he didn’t know what it was, if he didn’t prepare accordingly, it could mean his death.

Jaskier wondered if, in his place, he’d manage to do that.

His eyes fell on another body, and he closed them, deciding that eyesight was a little too dangerous at the moment.

Suddenly, there was a heavy hand on his back, and Jaskier instinctively opened his eyes, looking for the source and finding that Geralt had Roach slow to his side, and yellow eyes were analyzing him with concern.

“You should head back,” Geralt concluded after a moment. “You don’t need to see this.”

But Jaskier shook his head vehemently, immediately regretting the motion as it only further disturbed his stomach. “No, no. I - I just need a moment. I’ll be fine,” he promised.

Geralt only answered with a grunt, but after lingering by his side for a moment, he cued Roach to trot ahead once again.

It was slow-going from the moment they neared Sodden Hill, but the closer they got to the fortress, the worse it became. The horses were forced to choose their paths very carefully, and they neighed and complained often, unwilling to travel through the rubble and remaining corpses. Jaskier could see Geralt’s medallion trembling often, and he wondered whether that might also be the cause of the horses’ unease - many animals could sense magic.

Finally, they arrived, the final stretch of their path far more easy to tread, having been cleared in the days following the battle. They were met by a tired-looking but still imposing woman, who intercepted them at the gate and seemed rather unwilling to let them go any further.

“Tissaia de Vries,” Geralt greeted.

Did he know her? Oh, of course he knew her.

Somehow, Geralt just always seemed to know everyone. The more scary they seemed, the more likely it was that somehow, the witcher had a connection with them. And maybe he was exaggerating, but his whole body was sore, his stomach was still unsettled, and he desperately missed his bed in Kaer Morhen, so he was claiming the right to be annoyed at the one who’d dragged him into this.

Though he supposed he did rather drag himself.

“Geralt of Rivia, what an unexpected surprise.” There was the slightest hint of a smile on her lips. “If you’re looking for Yennefer, then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. She collapsed in the woods after saving us all, and by the time I could reach her, I’m afraid she was already gone. She’s alive, though, somewhere, I can all but promise you this. She’s strong and stubborn, as I’m sure you’ll already know.”

“Hm,” Geralt hummed, nodding in agreement.

Jaskier, deciding that the woman’s helpful information deserved better acknowledgement, took it upon himself to jump in. “Why, thank you. We did come seeking Yennefer, but it’s been a very long road and we’re very tired. If you could put us up with a room for the night, I’d happy to entertain everyone over supper. Perhaps I could compose something special for the occasion, if you’d like.”

Before Tissaia could reply, however, Geralt was already turning his horse around. “We’re leaving. Thank you, Tissaia, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll ask Yennefer to send word once I find her, but I can’t promise she’ll follow through.”

“I know. Thank you, Geralt.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier glanced between Tissaia and Geralt, trying to decide whether he was really up for another night in the woods, and finally, he cued his horse onto a trot after Geralt, muttering a very soft ‘ah, fuck’ under his breath.

*****

“Geralt, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’re not witches,” Jaskier pointed out, following after Geralt with an exasperated fast pace.

“They don’t like to be called that,” Geralt replied, “and I’m aware of that. I just need to locate the imprint of the portal - ah, there it is.”

His medallion jerked and jumped on the chain, all but pirouetting as Geralt held it over a specific spot. Magic, Jaskier figured, and very powerful magic at that, to leave such a strong trace. He didn’t know much about it, of course, but he’d watched Geralt on his contracts enough times that he had a pretty decent idea of how this worked.

“Great, so now what?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt glanced back towards the fortress, a slight frown on his face. “Now if we can get one of the sorcerers to help us, we can figure out where she went.”

It was one Triss Merigold who came to help - and of course, Geralt somehow seemed to be familiar with her, too. She was injured and tired, much like all those he’d seen near the fortress seemed to be, but she nonetheless gave them the estimated coordinates of the portal and asked that they see to it that Yennefer was safe. A friend of hers, then, Jaskier concluded. Right, that made sense.

As they rode off, though, Geralt explained that he knew Tissaia by reputation and through some of Yennefer’s stories only, and that he knew Triss from the time he’d saved the striga princess.

Jaskier laughed at that. Somehow, things were never what they seemed with Geralt, never.

They travelled the long road towards Aretuza quickly and efficiently, which naturally meant that Jaskier hardly had a chance to rest. Nearly every day Geralt would offer to find him safe lodging where he could await the witcher’s return, and every time Jaskier would turn it down, saying that he’d rather see this through - ballads would be written about this, Geralt and Yennefer, reunited once more. Geralt would tell him not to expect much from it, and fall silent once again. And yet every day Jaskier would complain of his aching body and general exhaustion, and every day they’d have the same conversation.

Eventually, however endless the road ahead of them seemed, they did arrive at Aretuza.

A few young recruits saw them in, most of the teachers having apparently left to deal with the ongoing crisis with Nilfgaard at the North’s heels, and they led them to Yennefer.

She stood at the edge of what Jaskier could only describe as a giant indoor pond, though the luminescent energy radiating from it made it far more ethereal than that. Magic flowed through those waters, of that he was sure. Though then again, he supposed that was to be expected. This was an academy for sorceresses, after all.

“I wanted to see what it was all for,” she explained, her back still turned to them.

Jaskier wondered whether she was reading their minds. Probably. She had a knack for doing that.

“Do you know how many died in Sodden Hill? How many of my sisters? And our brothers from the Brotherhood, too. Peasants, refugees from other places Nilfgaard already took from them. I wanted to see it, see what Tissaia said we were defending. Our way of life. Though I suppose... I suppose maybe they’d have killed us anyway.”

“Tissaia says you saved them,” Geralt said.

Yennefer sat down, still not even glancing over her shoulder to look at them.

“I did. She told me... She told me to let loose. To unleash Chaos. And I did. I - I must admit I’d never seen anything quite like it. I’d never seen magic unrestrained. Tissaia always taught us control.” She let out a sigh, shaking her head slightly. “But Chaos doesn’t discriminate between friend and foe. I don’t know... I don’t know for a fact, but I believe some of us died, too, in the fire. And I wanted to know that it was worth it. Sabrina, I watched her fall from the tower, thrown by Fringilla’s magic. She deserved better. They all did.”

Geralt took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. Yennefer didn’t move.

There was something different about her - the Yennefer that visited him a mere few weeks before wasn’t the same Yennefer who now sat before them. There was something about her, something with which Jaskier could almost relate. Something that nearly made him want to reach out and comfort the sorceress.

Vulnerability.

Yes, that was it.

The Yennefer he knew was all prickles and thorns, venomous words on the tip of her tongue. He hardly understood the allure, but he knew Geralt was hopelessly, irretrievably in love with her, one way or another. But this Yennefer? This Yennefer, he believed, he could understand. This Yennefer made sense to him. And that, if nothing else, made him find her a little less terrifying.

“I hear many of the sorcerers are still missing. I believe there were some casualties. I’m sorry, Yennefer,” Geralt offered, his voice softening almost imperceptibly.

Finally, Yennefer glanced back, violet eyes finding Geralt. “Triss?”

“She‘s fine. Injured, but not too badly - she was the one who helped us find you. I promised I’d send word once we knew you were safe. And Tissaia, she wishes to hear from you, too.”

Yennefer relaxed a little at his words. “Good. Good.”

“But Yen, that’s not the reason we came here. I wanted to make sure you were alright, but the reason I was looking for you in the first place - “ He was cut off by a less than pleased Yennefer, who stood up from the floor, turning to face them.

“No, I supposed not. Let me guess, you’re here because the bard has a rather loose tongue.”

“Yen - “

“No, she’s right, Geralt. I told him, I told him about your little visit, because I think there’s a few details you might have left out, like how you knew about any of this, and where we can find the people responsible.” Using this tone of voice with Yennefer was probably less than recommended, but he was tired - exhausted, even - and he really, really didn’t want to get caught between Geralt and Yennefer’s unresolved issues.

Really, he’d written a song about it - well, about where he stood in the whole ordeal, but Geralt and Yennefer’s complicated relationship was certainly front and center - what more was he supposed to do?

“Has it occurred to you, Jaskier, that if I didn’t tell you, I likely have my reasons, or is this level of deduction a little too advanced for you?”

He fumed. His index finger stuck out in a dramatic gesture, he started to craft a masterful response - which would likely culminate into senseless blubbering as it usually did in these situation, may his degree from Oxenfurt rest in peace - but Geralt beat him to it, all calm and logical, the traitor.

“Yen, this is important. I need to find the people behind this, they must be stopped.”

Yennefer shook her head. “No, you need to stay away from it. That’s why I sent the bard to you, I thought he could talk some sense into you, and failing that, he could provide a good distraction.”

A frown formed on Jaskier’s face, and he quickly interjected before Geralt had a chance to reply. “Wait, you said I was supposed to stop Geralt from getting himself killed.”

“Yes, and if he gets involved in this, he will get himself killed,” Yennefer pointed out, closing the distance between herself and Geralt. “These are mages with knowledge lost for generations, mages powerful enough to create witchers, to bring you back from the brink of extinction. They’re people with an agenda, Geralt, and they won’t let you get in the way of that. You can bet they already know you’re looking into this. Drop it. For your own sake - for my sake, for the bard’s sake - drop it.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Jaskier, still standing close to the entrance of the room, itched to get closer, to try and figure out what was running through the witcher’s mind, but he could not seem to move from his spot. He almost wondered whether Yennefer had something to do with that.

And then, finally, Geralt answered, “no.”

Yennefer let out a sigh, eyes closing. “Fine. So be it.” Jaskier could almost hear her calling Geralt an idiot. “The mages you’re looking for, they’re not part of the Brotherhood. But the Brotherhood is aware of what they’re doing and investigating - they’ve not yet decided if they’re keen on the idea of more witchers running around. No one knows who they are, or where they’ve set up their school. So far they’ve been rather reclusive. But we do know one thing - the mutagens they’re using came partially from Kaer Morhen and partially from the School of the Cat.”

At that, Jaskier could see Geralt’s eyes widening, his whole body tensing.

Something was wrong. Was this about the sacking of Kaer Morhen? Was this because they had no leads on those responsible? No, he was pretty sure that Geralt had been expecting that, and whatever this was, it came as a surprise.

“What? What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked, finally finding it in himself to move from his spot and close the distance between himself and the other two.

Geralt took a moment to reply. “The mutagens used by the School of the Cat are flawed. They’re not only notorious for failing, but they enhance emotions, they... Witchers from the Cat School are far more likely to be unstable. They have a bad reputation and they’ve worked for it. I don’t understand why anyone would choose to use these mutagens when creating a new school.”

“Perhaps they didn’t know,” Yennefer chanced, “or perhaps they didn’t care. They may be using them to fill in the gaps, or experimenting with them. Sometimes the things we believe have failed are the ones who hold the greatest potential.”

“You sound as if you almost admire them,” Geralt... growled. Yes, Jaskier decided, that was definitely a growl.

Yennefer was not bothered in the least. “That is quite a feat that they’ve accomplished, piecing together the process to create witchers, successfully creating a new School.”

“Leading, no doubt, to the death of many,” Geralt pointed out.

“Impressive, still.”

Geralt’s only reply was a low rumble of ‘hm’.

There was another long silence before finally, Geralt turned around and started walking towards the exit. “Come on, Jaskier. We’ve a long road ahead.”

Jaskier frowned, though he, if with some hesitancy, rushed to catch up. “But Geralt, we still don’t know where to go! Maybe Yennefer - ”

“We do know. Come on.”

Deciding there was no point in arguing, Jaskier simply followed him. But before he crossed the threshold, he paused, turning back to face the sorceress.

“Thank you, Yennefer.”

_Thank you for leading me back to him, thank you for watching out for him when I wasn’t there, and thank you, thank you for holding off the Nilfgaardian forces. Thank you._

Much to his surprise, instead of offering him a derisive comment, she simply smiled.


End file.
